What is Time?
by SevsGirl33
Summary: John finds himself in St. Bart's morgue needing a friend. Post-Fall.


He looked around as he pushed the door open. It came as quite a shock when he realized he had just walked into the morgue at St. Bart's. The last place he was aware of being was outside their flat on Baker Street.

_My flat,_ John thought with a lump in his throat, though he had not been able to enter the flat since before the funeral.

He choked back a sob at the thought of that day. It had been nearly two years since he received that phone call. _The_ phone call. The note of Sh-

"Don't!" he yelled aloud at himself. Then, almost an inaudible whisper, "Just don't."

"J-John?" The timid call brought him back to where he was standing. He looked around, momentarily unable to grasp why everything was a blur. He then became aware of the salty taste in his mouth, and quickly wiped away the tears.

Molly sat at the other end of the clean white room, a look of pity and concern visible even through John's tear-filled eyes.

"Why am I here?" His voice sounded miles away. There was a desperate longing in it that caused Molly to get up and slowly approach.

"I-John, I don't-I didn't know you were coming." She didn't know how to answer the unexpected question. How was she to know why he had come?

"I was just at Bak-" John began in the same shocked, desperate plea. _Baker Street,_ he told himself firmly. _Just say it you child._

But he couldn't force the words out. He tried to remember the events of the last hour. Or had it been a day? Or a year?

He had been standing, facing the door with those now dreaded numbers, trying to force himself to enter the flat, now empty except for the memories that pained him so. He recalled the heavy downpour that had started as he stood there. He did not have an umbrella, nor did he care.

He reached his hand out for the door handle, but froze an inch from it. His thoughts flew back to the first time he had been there, with a man he barely knew. His chest tightened, and he turned and ran from the door; ran from the memories, from the inescapable pain of being alone. He didn't know where he was headed, just knew that he could no longer stand on that street.

"John?" Molly's voice interrupted his thoughts again, a little more panicked this time. "You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be out at all. You need to rest. You need time to grieve, John. "He was you best friend a-and…" She stuttered upon seeing the look of pain, confusion, longing on the face of the man in front of her.

"'Time to grieve?'" he asked, not understanding. "But, I shouldn't still be grieving. It's been almost two years now." His voice was a little stronger, though still distant. His eyes were now dry, but still glazed over. He glanced at the terrified Molly, who had snapped her hands to her thin lips as he spoke, tears threating to spill over her wide brown eyes. "Right? It's been two years hasn't it?"

He began to doubt that fact himself, now. It had certainly felt like two years. Maybe more. Perhaps even four or five years…

Molly shook her head, the tears finally cascading down her cheeks. "The funeral was yesterday!" John jumped at the panic in voice, which was an octave higher than usual. She turned from his and hurried to sit back down, hands covering her face as she cried silently.

John stood there, unsure of anything. As her words sunk in, he felt as though he was falling down a very dark, never ending hole. Slowly, almost unaware of what he was doing, he walked over to Molly. He looked down at her, wanting to comfort her in some way.

He opened his mouth to apologize for upsetting her. The one word that came out, however, was not decided upon at all. "Ye-Yesterday?" he murmured. She nodded into her hands. A sound then cut through John like millions of shard of glass.

The pained…moan, of sorts…had escaped Molly. She looked up at the lost army doctor, who just stared back at her, still numb from the shock of real time. She stood and pulled him into a hug.

He didn't respond to the embrace for nearly a full minute; not entirely conscious of the arms around him until they began to release their hold. He frantically put his arms around her, forcing her to regain her grip. He need it more than he would ever have thought possible.

"No," he pleaded, burying his face into her hair. "Don't."

"I'm here," whispered Molly, hesitantly stroking his short hair. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

They stood there for so long that both lost track of time. Neither cared; both just needed a friend, though for every different reasons.

The guilt molly felt was overwhelming. She saw how much Sherlock's "death" was hurting John. She also knew that she could fix it, stop all his pain, with one simple phone call. Well, perhaps not that simple. But she would not, could not, do that to Sherlock. He trusted her with his secret.

"Molly?" It was now John's turn to cut into her thoughts. He pulled back to look at her, but did not let her go. His face was stained with tears once more.

"Yes, John?" She looked up at him, hoping he could not read the truth.

Without a thought, John kissed her; a kiss, not of love, but of grief. It was a kiss, nonetheless, full of passion, though it was short lived.

He stumbled backwards away from Molly. She barely had time to register what had happened before it was over. The stunned look on her face was too much for the man. He nearly sprinted to the door before stopping with one foot over the threshold.

"Sorry," he mumbled without turning around, unsure if she could hear him. And he was gone, leaving behind a bewildered Molly.

John stopped half way up the flight of stairs. He sank to the ground, hating himself. He had not meant to kiss her. He never had any intention of such a thing. Especially because of how she felt for Sherlock; and how he thought Sherlock had felt for her.

John felt as though he had betrayed his best friend. That one, short, meaningless kiss that came out of nowhere made him feel as though he was the worst man on the planet.

He had planned to tell Molly that Sherlock had cared for her, even if he didn't know it himself. John could see it, and just wanted her to know.

He got up and went back home, back to Baker Street. The next time he and Molly spoke, he explained. The two agreed never speak of the kiss again.


End file.
